


Haunted

by kashmiir



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: M/M, This depressed me why did I write it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12157131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashmiir/pseuds/kashmiir
Summary: Jonesy visits an old friend.





	Haunted

I looked over at him with wide eyes full of wonder when he played. It was an expression that seemed to stick through the years and Jimmy would often call it a deer in headlights type of expression, but Robert would look more into it and see the character in my face as it would soften in awe over how Bonzo hit the drums with great ease. Drum stricks often seemed to be an extension of his arms and his passion and fury behind the kit transcended through live shows and in the studio. You could never replicate what Bonzo did, but sure as hell, many tried. We never tried to be anything but ourselves, and people often tried to ride our coattails, failing terribly. That must have sounded egotistical, and yet it was the truth.

Bonzo didn't seem to care, though. All he gave a damn about was playing, performing, and doing what he loved. That attitude was half the success of the band, I reckoned. It was a quality that we all shared, and while Jimmy and Robert pushed the envelope often with oozing sexuality, Bonzo was much more organic about his performaces on stage.

After the show was a different story. Organic was a way to describe it, but there was far much more than that. Passionate, needy, loving. Those were three top words I could use over and over. The bedroom was never talked about, but it was a thing we did often. Groupies latched onto the other two far more than us, though we did see our fair share, but things were different when our worlds collided. It never felt like it was wrong, as many would say it could be. It was like fireworks on the fourth of July, and I never felt anything quite like it. Strong hands searching warm flesh, and an inviting mouth seemingly claiming any part of skin that could be touched. I never had a single complaint, and I remembered every encounter that we ever had between the sheets. I never forgot how that beard scratched against my skin either, and how I even loved that.

Now I stand here in front of a headstone with his name on it, adorned with cymbols, drum sticks, and anything else that had the memory of John Bonham attached to it. I brought flowers with me, which never were his favorite, but he always bought them for me and surprised me in secrecy just to see me smile. He did a lot of little things like that just to let me know he cared, despite our personal lives going in separate directions quite often. He never had to do any of that, and yet he went out of his way like the big hearted lug he was.

I hated the day I found him. It was like the biggest nightmare come true, and it was hard to keep everything together and deal with the aftermath. One could say Robert had been the biggest wreck out of the band, but I put up a Great Wall's worth of artillery to make sure nobody knew how torn up I was. I can never forget how I felt, or how he looked, and it still haunts me after all this time.

But nothing haunts me more than wondering if the great John Bonham knew exactly how much he was loved, and by no one more than me.


End file.
